


The Bad Ending

by Loch



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Robotjolras
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-13 15:53:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loch/pseuds/Loch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the title suggests, this is the 'Bad Ending' to my Robotjolras universe. I was dared to make someone cry in less than 1k words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was the second time that Enjolras had been shot.

And, just like the first, it was fatal. Right in the centre of his chest, but with a far more powerful gun -this one ripped his torso apart. Shards of metal showered down around his feet as he stayed standing, the flagpole in his hand more of a crutch than it seemed. 

Saying that his internal functions were compromised would be a startling understatement -he wasn’t entirely sure his legs were even attached any more. 

Then the flag fell, and he went with it. 

And, much like the first time, he was stopped from breaking further by hands catching him. The flag came to rest across the cavity that was his chest, and for a split second it would be easy to think he was human, bleeding out. 

But then it was torn away by a hand stained by gunsmoke. A curse was breathed over him, almost like a prayer.

The pair to that hand tried to keep him supported, though his weight was crushing him to the body half beneath his. Grantaire’s, of course. He had offered no excuse this time, had just turned up, sat silent through the orders Enjolras gave to all but him, then had stood behind him.

Their impact with the pavement was heralded with the screeching sound of ruined metal bent ever further out of shape. Grantaire, strong as he was from single-stick, was not able to keep them both up at such an odd angle. 

The air was driven from his lungs by Enjolras’, but that wasn’t all. 

The path a bullet makes into a body is different from that it leaves by. In a human, the front and back would be the same -completely obliterated. In Enjolras, the front was gone. The back was a mess of wire and jagged edges. 

It had taken all of the gun’s power to blow those sides out into deceptively delicate spikes. 

Grantaire never had a chance. 

Enjolras’ arm moved with the whir he had gotten used to, pushing him off of Grantaire and onto the pavement next to him. He could see the flag, though his sensors were dulling. 

So very red.

The others were running to them now.

There was shock on every face. Joly and Combeferre were there in seconds, both taking a brief look at each of them, then dividing as needed. It was odd to see the look of fear on their brawler’s face, even if only for a moment -he did not come too close, instead watching their backs as the firefight raged on.

Joly knelt by Grantaire’s head, and Combeferre did the same for Enjolras.

It wasn’t more than a moment before Joly spoke.

“He’s dying.” It was calm, cold as ice. Not a friend in this moment, but the doctor in a crises he would one day be. “Call an ambulance.”

“They blocked communications when the army were brought in.” Enjolras replied, before the others could. 

Joly didn’t look up. “Bossuet, Bahorel, Fuilley, run until you’re out of the dead zone. Get an ambulance to come here. We can’t move him. Severe injury to the chest, legs, and neck. Possible concussion from the fall. Blood loss and internal injury most likely cause of death.”

They ran, splitting into three directions.

The ambulance wasn't allowed through, but the medics inside were. And so they came, sprinting though a five-minute ceasefire to get Grantaire onto a stretcher.

The cease wasn't to do with him, though. No, it was because the soldiers on the other side of their crumbling defense (no longer their stronghold) did not want the risk of shooting Enjolras -and in doing so, blowing themselves up. 

The cease ended the second Combeffere and Bahorel (who had returned once his call had gone through, just after Fuilley's) dragged Enjolras from the frontlines. Joly had gone with Grantaire in the ambulence, safe as could be.

Gavroche had been hiding in the barricade itself, lying in wait, seeing what would happen. None of them had thought that the army would be called in, not so soon, and so had not prepared for the high-powered rounds that made wood as much use as paper. 

Courfeyrac had been sprinting to the front, having been getting more ammunition from the back, when the shots began again. There was no sound from Gavroche, only a slight figure that ceased to stand. Jehan had seen what was about to happen, and had managed one last shot before he fell from the barricade, blood leaching a single colour through his clothes.


	2. Chapter 2

The ambulance should not be silent. There are mouths moving, after all, and a vehicle thundering along is never quiet. But still, Grantaire could hear nothing. He could recognise Joly, who stayed close by his side and clutched at his hand whenever disapproving looks were turned away.He wanted to look at his chest, in some weird part of his mind. See the mental pain made real, in some way. Never let it be said he couldn’t be dramatic. 

Joly stared at him, and he realised that he had spoken aloud. Tried to, anyway. He wasn’t sure how successful he was, sound being broken as it was.

He tried to ignore how white Joly was, how the ambulance crew avoided looking him in the eyes. 

He also tried to ignore how Enjolras hadn’t helped him, hadn’t even reacted to him.  _Probably not in his programming._ He thought.  _Hah._

Fuck.

Fuck, that  _really_ hurt. 

Laughing, that is. Desperate, gasping, bloody, attempted laughter. 

They were all staring at him then. Joly looked like Grantaire had just admitted to having the plague, the crew in a strange mix of morbid curiosity and pity. 

Joly’s mouth forms words, over and over. They look a little like ‘stop’ and maybe a ‘what’. 

He tries to explain, to say that  _look at what has been made of me._ but the words do not come. He can’t get his breath, isn’t even sure if he’s breathing. 

They put a mask over his face. 

Joly talks to them, intent and intense. They shake their heads a little, look at each other to gain strength and unity. 

Joly’s hand grips tighter, his knuckles unhealthy colours. Grantaire can not feel it, and it feels like his head is floating free. 

He’s still thinking about the colours of Joly’s knuckles, their red and striped flags, and gun-metal bodies torn in the sunlight when dancing black spots work their way into his eyes. They start in the middle, but spread quickly.  _Like spores,_ Combeferre might have told him. 

He wonders, briefly, what the others are doing. He hadn’t seen any gunshots since Enjolras and he had gone down -he knew they probably weren’t risking blowing them all up with a stray shot. Apparently, it was one thing to take out his chest and everything neck-down, but if you took out the head then you were all in trouble. Who knew? His Apollo really was made of fire. Toxic, irradiated fire.

Maybe one of them -Courfeyrac, he thinks, the charmer- had taken the advantage and spoken. Maybe Jehan had gotten them all singing, as he had done before. Or maybe Gavroche had robbed them of their firing pins- he had to laugh at the image. 

He was happy, he realised. Elated, giddy, insensible most likely. 

[He almost didn’t notice the swirls and spots taking over his eyes entirely, but he did. He pretended he didn’t, trying to smile at Joly around the tubes and mask.]

How far was it to the Emergency Room anyway? It seemed like they’d been driving forever. 

Were they taking Enjolras, too, in some other ambulance? 

Though he supposed that didn’t make sense. Did mechanics do battle-field retrievals? 

And why on earth was Joly touching his chest-  _Oh my fucking god what is that-_

When he came to, everyone looked surprised. Joly’s hand had been hovering around his face, drawn back quickly when his eyes opened. Had they thought he was dead?

Though, actually, the more he tried not to think about it the more he really began to wish that he was. Because while having not really been feeling the pain before,  _holy hell_ was he feeling it now. 

Didn’t ambulances have painkillers? No?

Ah, there is was. A needle, straight into his arm.

They’d taken the blanket off, now, and he wasn’t sure what colour it had been when they’d put it there, but it wasn’t the same. Why would you have blood coloured blankets? It’d just freak people out.

[He was well aware that he was attempting to distract himself from a very simple fact: nothing can lose that much blood. Even if he thinks it’s more than it is, he lost it on the streets, too.]

Those black specks hadn’t gone, either. Hell, there are more now -he can’t even see Joly’s expressions, though he can guess what it would be. Probably a bit horrified, because it looks like there’s blood splashed all up his arms. 

There’s a moment when the whole thing rocks, and the crew adjust, but Joly doesn’t. He ends up looking like he’s praying at Grantaire’s alter, elbows on the edge of the tray and on his knees, cramped on the floor. He doesn’t move away, but there are tears in his eyes and a ‘why’ on his lips. 

Grantaire can’t remember how to blink any more, and he’s almost sure than he hadn’t breathed for a while. Maybe that would help the world settle down again, get rid of those shifting spots. There’s metal in his mouth, too, over the taste of plastic and air.

He’s not stupid, he’s been in enough fights and bitten his tongue enough to know that it’s the taste of blood.

He’s hung around medical students and has enough common sense to know that his lungs are shot. Probably some other important stuff, too. 

But then Joly is stretching out and crying  _at_ him, words indiscernible. 

_It’s alright,_ he wants to say, with breath he doesn’t have and clarity he’s starting to wish he didn’t,  _I wasn’t meant to live so long anyway._

He suddenly catches something that Joly is mouthing at him.  _They’re all okay._ He says.  _You saved them._ He says it over and over, until they stop being words and start being warm feelings, so warm they’re almost freezing in his chest.

He saved them. Enjolras, all their friends. He thinks of their happiness, their goals lighting them all from the inside, being that step closer. 

He does manage to smile, with lips going numb, and he’s sure he’s quite a sight to see. Joly tries to return it, and he thinks that they must both look more than a little insane.

Joly bends his head to Grantaire’s side, tears flowing free and shoulders shaking. A technician puts a hand on his shoulder, a gesture of pity and solidarity, maybe. They pull a different blanket up over Grantaire’s body, as if he could get cold now.

He could almost be sleeping, but a single phrase is all it takes to make that an impossible dream.

Dead on arrival. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and I wonder if you can see my soul die a little bit with each line? It certainly felt like it was. If you have any questions, I am writeable at yourlordship.tumblr.com


End file.
